by Ben English
His phone still had a bit of juice left. “Al,” he said, “Just finished sweeping the ductwork on the third floor.”
The voice in his ear came back right away. “Slowpoke. We already finished everywhere else. I’m in the ops center with Ian and his buddies from the FBI.”
Jack dropped into a padded chair, and a small cloud of dust rose off his coveralls. “You need a hand tying the new security measures into our crow’s nest?”
“No, we’re done. After hacking the PicoMorph systems, Ian’s an old hand. He’s got a great future in industrial espionage. The Bureau’s advance team is handing the ball over to the Secret Service.” Alonzo sniffed. “Everyone’s been assuring me the SS won’t change any of the security plans for the reception.”
The sarcasm would have wrung the ears of a deaf man. “Sure. And Nantucket Red is still pink.”
Alonzo laughed, then asked, “What does that mean?”
"Everywhere in Cape Cod you see otherwise masculine men wearing pink pants. Hey, when you’re done there, meet me in the grand ballroom. Got a couple ideas I want to bounce.”
He left Alonzo on the line and dialed a third person into their conversation. “Steve, we finished the security sweep and hooked everything up. Can you see all the security feeds?
“Hey, Al, Jack. Signal strength is five by five. We can monitor everything that goes on in conference center ops. You guys find any bombs in the belfry?”
“Not a one,” Jack replied. “At this point I’m not sure what’s worse: actually finding and dealing with one of Raines’ devices, or all the time we just spent looking for them.”
It was meticulous, nerve-racking work. “Full pucker factor,” agreed Alonzo. “And not like any of the Very Impatient Persons are ever going to know what we did.” He made an enthusiastic, soggy sound. “I’m going to be sneezing dust for a week.”
“As long as it’s a week on a beach.” Jack ended the call.
Traditionally, the Goodwill Games was a project fueled by national pride, and Cuban ingenuity was in correspondingly florid display. The conference center was new—worse than new: official construction ended a week ago, but there were still a dozen last-minute projects underway. Two hours from the opening gala, and there was still an open call for tradesmen to come in from the provinces and lend their skills.
The combination of eleventh hour touchups and unscreened workers made security sweeps ridiculously ineffective, so Jack’s team had agreed to lend their expertise.
Truth be told, he enjoyed it. Felt like honest work. Though he’d never understand how new construction sites managed to generate their own weight in dust. He wiped a layer of fine grime from the polished table and was rewarded with his own reflection. It was not an improvement.
The VIPs should be just waking up from their beauty rest. Two hours to go.
He met Alonzo on the floor of the main ballroom, passing a team of carpet layers on their way out. Banquet tables were going up, along with an acoustical shell for a live band and footings for a row of ice sculptures.
“Will you look at that.” Alonzo whistled low at a Caribbean sunset nearly filling the Western wall, an avalanche of light through rows and rows and rows of windows overlooking the main avenue below. The sunset caught them off guard; it had been overcast and muggy the entire day.
For all their beauty, the celestial golds and purples were a distraction, and the construction foreman loudly demanded the curtains closed. Draperies on counterbalanced hinges flew across the window, also activating one of the location’s security measures: steel shutters slid out behind the drapes, further shielding the room.
The overall décor was Cuban Colonial, which called for a surprising amount of plant life. Both live and plastic foliage were in abundance. Flowering trees in cunningly concealed pots seemed to grow from the center of many dining tables, and vines embraced the columns and arches supporting the balcony, which overlooked the dance floor and the skylight-and-chandelier combination.
Which was easily the center piece of the room. Jack wondered what it would look like when the power was on and the bulbs lit.
The skylight above was overwhelming, stunning in its complexity and beauty. A dozen concentric glass circles in the ceiling radiated outward from a crystal center. Steel-and-gold spires embedded in the glass held the crystal disk in place and framed the glass. Great hooks lined the outermost rim, while several surprisingly thin, polished chains attached to the wall near the floor threaded up through each hook and down to support a magnificent chandelier.
Directly beneath these tons of steel, glass, and crystal stood the foreman, shouting orders at small groups of men clutching the end of each cable. No less than three tripods threw positioning lasers up at the chandelier; fixing the thing in place looked to require multiple advanced engineering degrees.
The cables looked awfully thin to Jack. The slightest give in any of them sent the entire crystal rig swaying.
Alonzo was as impressed as Jack, but he tended to bore quickly. “You mentioned you had an idea?”
He nodded. “Right before we dropped Irene off at the airport, you said you needed your own island.”
“Right.” Alonzo was watching the foreman, who had his back to them. Jack followed the line of Alonzo’s gaze—no, her back; the coveralls were unable to disguise certain fascinating contours, and a long, nut-brown curl of hair escaped her hardhat and spiraled downward.
Alonzo cleared his throat. “When I have my own island – long enough with a runway for a QSST.”
He suddenly forgot about the foreman. “Raines flew a QSST out of England, didn’t he?”
“How long a runway would you need to land one of those?”
“Not as long as you think. Maybe eight hundred feet.”
“Still, if we go with the theory that he’s in the Caribbean somewhere, that narrows it down a bit.”
Alonzo wasn’t sure. “You really think he’s in the neighborhood?”
“Sure. Raines has been managing his businesses at an arm’s length for years. I think the distance is eating at him, and he needs to be closer—feel actually involved—for this phase of his plans. Look at London. He didn’t need to be there. He’s close. Maybe not in Havana, but he’s got eyes here.”
“That’s thin.”
Jack lowered his voice as a cluster of workmen crept by, gingerly grasping a chandelier anchor. “He needs serious electrical power. If he’s in the islands, he’s plugged into some serious geothermals.”
“One of his companies is an alternative energy player. Okay. Okay.” Alonzo thought a moment. “What about that idea Nicole had, tracking Raines’ favorite imported food?”
“We’re still working on that. Steve had to expand his search outside Cuba. Hey, good news: he’s prepped credentials for us as inspectors with the Food and Drug Administration.”
“Great, a new disguise. Anything that doesn’t involve me dressing up in floppy shoes and a red rubber nose.”
Jack started to smile despite himself. “See, I think you were great as a clown. Inspired. It got you in the door, didn’t it? Look,” he said, sensing an imminent tirade. “Next time you need a new identity on the fly, just make it simple. Start by changing your last name or something. That’s how you start a new legend.”
Alonzo rolled his eyes. This was a discussion they’d had before. They maintained half a dozen sets of IDs for everyone on the team, but more important, all their false identities had active, deeply detailed legends behind them: a passport, library card, gym membership, frequent flier miles, credit cards, even a Facebook page in the old days.
“Sure. My legend for tonight is a humdinger, Jack. You thought it up, didn’t you? Some secret identity this is. I’ve got an AARP membership and knitting blog I’ve got to update three times a day.”
“You think I make the back story too complicated?”
“Professional hazard of working with an actor. Anonymity is our best friend, genius.”
A loud voice that wasn’t their own br
oke the conversation. “The two of you expect to get paid tonight, you’ll clear the floor before the chandelier winds up on your heads.” The foreman was even prettier from the front. “Now either lend a hand or get the hell out of my way.”
Alonzo and Jack assisted with the positioning of the chandelier. It really was a very delicate process, and from the way the foreman fretted over their every move, dangerous as well. It seemed to be anchored to the wall by the flimsiest of bolts, five in all, spaced widely across one wall. Exhausting work, and it left them filthier than before.
“I need a shower and a wardrobe change,” said Jack.
“I need a beer,” Alonzo replied.
*
Havana choked itself on touristas. Groups clotted together, accumulated members, then fell apart again, a shifting, elementary mass—enough for Rogiberto to lose himself for a few hours before duty. He headed for the high fashion shops and wandered the streets, just another man in uniform. The European had been explicit that he must stay away from the convention center and anything having to do with tonight’s festivities, so as to avoid the appearance of evil.
There were only a few musts. Rogiberto would arrive at his post precisely twenty minutes early, stay watchful and ready right up to the crucial moment, and then, in the ensuing chaos, make sure he avoided suspicion. There was a whole memorized script of things he could tell his supervisors.
After tonight, neither he nor anyone in his family would need to work again. There would be a new Berto; everything would be different. He mused on the legend he would yet build of himself.
Perhaps even politics, but not at first.
He’d be done with the uniform, and with new wealth would come the right kind of woman. His European . . . benefactor . . . had already seen to the former; Rogiberto expected to achieve the latter himself, easily enough. Who knows, he might even find her today. He was certainly in the right part of the city.
He paused before a storefront, examining the tight black dress on the mannequin in the window. They’d started putting nipples on the shop mannequins for some reason. Had to do with the advent of the American tourist wave, he supposed. They spent and spent.
One customer stood just inside the doorway, chatting with the owner. She dressed like someone raised in the climate, relaxed in the heat, but her Spanish was too slow for Cuba and her body and posture were one hundred percent American. Curious.
She had an expensive camera, and took several shots of the inside of the store and the workers.
Rogiberto watched as an assistant approached with a garment bag and a portfolio holding the receipt—this type of store wouldn’t have a visible cash register—and the woman accepted both with a measure of grace. Whoever she was, she treated the shop owner and the hired help equally well. She understood struggle, sweat, and the honor in earning a day’s wage. Maybe she wasn’t an American after all.
She met his eyes as she exited the store. Her eyes were green. Yes, she was the right type. The kind of woman Rogiberto would find after tonight. He watched her walk away, watched her for a long time.
*
Under several layers of makeup, unshaven, and walking with a small stone in each shoe to break up the profile of his body and gait, Miklos perspired freely. Maneuvering the giant chandelier to alignment under the skylight was backbreaking work, and the crowd of Cuban laborers he mingled with all strained together, pulling down together until the last bolt was in the wall and the chains anchored to something other than sweaty, honest men.
Soaked and perspiring he might be, but Miklos thanked his own ingenuity and the disguise he wore—Flynn and Noel had passed within three meters of him without suspicion. Their attention had been on the task at hand, pulling the crystal monstrosity into position—and all of the men noticed the woman, the architect. Miklos used the resultant distraction to his advantage, slipping right past the two.
Eventually the two Americans parted company, though not without each saying something that the other found hilarious. Shortly thereafter the group of workmen were swept out of the ballroom through the wide servants’ passage, which led downward two levels. At the base of the stairs the group slowed—the doorway to the next room was much narrower than the hall. All were careful to avoid the wet paint signs on either wall. The smell of new construction, cement and drywall weighted the air.
Unobserved, Miklos stood at the back of the group, taking the opportunity to scrutinize the walls, floor, and ceiling at the chokepoint. The men from Cayo Verad had done exceptional work. The device was invisible. He expected to see some slight protuberance, or perhaps a vent, even a series of tiny, tiny holes.
But nothing.
Nothing was good.
As Miklos passed through the doorway he thumbed a controller switch. The device was silent as well, buried deep in the walls.
He never wore a watch, but even so had to remind himself to ignore the wrists of the men around him, and the clocks they passed on the wall. Miklos knew what time it was. He barely had an hour to get into position.
The Epicure
Steve sat in front of three monitors, staring at a fourth, feeling something close to shock. It couldn’t be this easy. After almost a week of scraping the ‘net, he’d found the elusive Alex Raines. A man’s social calendar, the computers of his secretaries, and his official travel schedule might say one thing, but his grocery list told the truth.
Raines was a foodie.
More than a food lover, he was an actual, certified chef. According to his Wikipedia page, Stanford wasn’t the only Bay Area school he'd attended. In addition to degrees in macroeconomics and physics, Raines held a certificate from the Culinary Institute of America in Napa, California.
“CIA.” Had to laugh at that one.
Not just a foodie, a real chef.
“We know he was in London last week.” The page for the Illuminatus Tower was still live on the web; Steve maneuvered to the login page for the staff schedule. Security was tight on Raines’ network, but there were holes for those who knew where to look. A database sat behind the user name and password.
Typing a short string of characters into the login area, Steve launched a simple SQL injection attack on the website. The database opened like an oyster; it was attached to another database, and another. Soon he was looking at the personal shopping list for the executive provisioner to the estate of Alex Raines. It was full of ingredients both exotic and mundane.
Odds were good that wherever in his kingdom Raines might go, his food followed him.
Steve took a good hard look at the list of foods and their shipping information. Amazing. They preferred the same flavor of Pop-tarts.
His phone was near enough. “Dial Jack,” he said.
“Steve. What have you got?” Jack sounded like he was in the shower.
“Maybe a lead on Raines.”
“Another one, good.” Jack did an amazing job of keeping impatience out of his voice. “Lay it on me.”
“Alex Raines likes to eat something called guanciale. Like bacon, I guess.”
“Sure. Seasoned pig’s cheek, really rare. Victoria’s sister had us run some down once, in northern Italy outside Ancona. Took us a week to find what she wanted.”
“Says here the meat is washed in wine, seasoned, and left in a stone box for 40 days to marinate. After that they hang it to dry.”
At the other end of the call, Jack turned off the water. “You found Alex Raines’ recipe box?”
“I hacked his vice. What’s the ‘Campo de' Fiori’?”
“It’s an open air market. Biggest one in Rome.”
“The kind of bacon Raines likes to cook with is only sold in the Campo de’ Fiori. His agent buys in bulk.”
Jack’s voice slowed and became deliberate. That usually meant he was excited. “Can you trace it forward?”
Steve nearly giggled with glee, then made himself sound serious. “I can try.”
“Do or do not. There is no ‘try.’ Got to run, buddy.”
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br /> Steve ended the call. Try. Pfff. They put barcodes on everything nowadays. If a housewife in Des Moines could track the blueberries she bought at Safeway, then he, Steve Fisbeck, King Geek Supreme, could track the international meanderings of a crate of pig fat.
It would take maybe thirty minutes, on the outside. After all, hadn’t he just hacked the database of the Illuminatus Tower?
He just wouldn’t mention to anyone that he learned that particular SQL script from a twelve-year-old on YouTube.
Odd Combinations
Moving through the building by hallway rather than via airduct was quicker and better for the posture, and Jack made his way to the balcony overlooking the main plaza without adventure. The guard posted outside was less interested in his tuxedo than in his access pass, and gave a little jump of recognition at his name and another at his face.
Playing the disguise of Jack Flynn the Actor was not without benefits. For the price of an autograph he had the balcony to himself. Jack grasped the railing and relaxed into the warm air, the salty breath of the city.
Havana bloomed. Hard to imagine how much the city changed since his last visit—the restoration programs Espinosa put into place were working. The entire island seemed to be evolving backwards, retreating through time toward some floating point in the mid-1950s. Or at least what Jack imagined the ‘50s to look like, with a touch of high tech here and there. LEDs instead of neon, and an occasional panel of cell phone antennas.
It paid to have an economist at the helm of the country. Espinosa embraced the free market, and as Cuba’s industries began to soar, foreign monies poured in. The island was quickly turning into America’s favorite beach, and Hollywood naturally “rediscovered” Havana’s nightlife. Jack Flynn the Actor could thrive here, go anywhere.
Spotlights shone down from the rooftops and sliced up into the night sky. Fireworks popped and sparked in the little alleys below. The greatest display would take place shortly before midnight, when Espinosa addressed the crowd from the balcony where Jack now waited, alone with his thoughts.